Her voice croaked when she spoke. “We have to get to the Coast Guard cutter.”
“Hoorah, ma’am.”
Lieutenant Jack Nelson had always expected to go out in just this way, especially since he’d crossed that damned line between reality and myth that those in the know called the veil. He knew that monsters existed, and if he had to go out at all, dying in battle against beings that had haunted people’s nightmares for centuries wasn’t a horrible way to go.
That didn’t mean he intended to go quietly into the night.
When he was finally swarmed and tackled, he managed to shoot one of them in the head with his 1911, dropping it hard. The next hit him and drove him to the ground, tearing a grunt from his throat as he wrapped his hands around the thing’s throat. Even as he squeezed with all his strength, it just kept snapping its teeth at him, right up until a crackling pop sounded in the thing’s neck. It went limp the moment he popped its spinal column, slumping on him like a sack of wet sand, yet even then it kept snapping its jaws.
He called it a “thing” and “it,” because while it may once have been a person, Nelson couldn’t see a hint of humanity in it. The poor bastard’s eyes were fogged with the mist of death, and the stench of rot came off it just as strongly as if he’d walked into the scene of a firefight a day later.
He heaved it clear of him so that its damned jaws couldn’t get at him, but while he was focused on that task, another three of the bastards swarmed him. One locked onto his shoulder, the strength of its jaws crushing bone, but thankfully not penetrating his BDUs and vest. He got his fist around the back of the second one’s head and managed to score a clump of hair that was holding strong, but the third one unfortunately went for his upper arm.
Nelson couldn’t stifle his scream and, frankly, didn’t see the point. He let it out, his voice rising over the eerie voiceless groaning and scratching of the things that surrounded him. He used his voice to power his motion as he twisted away from the jaws that were locked on his arm. He felt the vampire, if that was what it was, fall away, but a rush of warmth down his arm told him that it had come at a cost.
He kept rolling, coming over onto his back in the cold water of the Beaufort, one of the bastard’s scalps still gripped tightly in his fist.
“Time to say bye-bye,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his free hand gripping Robbie Keyz’s little “gift.” He slapped it onto the side of the thing’s head, the material laced with plastic explosives wrapping around its skull, the Velcro catching as it slapped closed.
Nelson braced his feet between himself and the vampire and heaved with all his strength as he yanked the trigger catch on the explosive.
The vampire flew back, a dim red light blinking to life as it pitched into a group of its comrades. The shadowy figures were bowled over like ten pins by the force of the impact. Nelson struggled to his feet, turning as he slogged through the cold water of the northern sea. He didn’t know how big the boom was going to be, but knowing Keyz’s reputation, he didn’t want to be too close.
The impromptu headband that he’d wrapped around the skull of his last attacker detonated as it was struggling back to its feet. The ball bearings Keyz had embedded in the plastic exploded inward, turning its skull to paste before exiting the other side and continuing on its warpath through everything around it.
As Nelson tried to slog farther away, he felt a crushing blow land on the back of his right calf. He pitched forward into the lapping waves of the Beaufort as the darkness finally reached out and swallowed him.
CHAPTER 12
“Son of a bitch.”
Masters didn’t have anything to add to Rankin’s statement as he looked around the interior of the C-130 aircraft. Bodies lined up like cordwood. If the blood trails were any indication, someone had taken the time to drag them on board the plane before closing up the hatches and leaving them to rot.
Or not, as the case may be.
“Alex.”
“On it.” Norton nodded, drawing a blade from his hip as he moved to the closest body to check the injuries.
“Watch the door, Eddie,” Masters ordered. “I’m going to check the radio.”
“Got it,” Rankin said, pushing his Beowulf around on its straps so that it was hanging behind his back. He picked up one of the many M4 carbines lying around and went over to stand by the plane hatch, where he could look out over the airfield.
Masters made his way to the front of the plane, grimacing as he stepped over bloodied bodies on his way to the communications post. He removed the body of the guardsman that was still sitting there, lowering it to the ground relatively gently as he slipped into the chair, purposefully ignoring the bloodstains.
The radio was on the National Guard’s channel, so he flipped it over to a secure navy channel instead.
“Navy SOCOM, this is Thirteen,” he said, using the agreed-upon codename. “I say again, Thirteen.”
“Thirteen, your transmission is not encrypted. Please correct.”
Masters rolled his eyes but pulled out a navy encrypt unit from a pouch on his vest and connected it to the radio. “Encrypted, SOCOM.”
“Confirmed. What is your status?”
“Site is confirmed hot,” he said. “I say again, site is hot.”
“Do you need backup?”
“I need to be in Florida, on a nice beach, away from all this insanity,” Masters muttered, “but that’s not going to happen, and backup would never arrive in time.”
“What are you advising, Thirteen?”
“Hold until I make contact again,” Masters said. “If I don’t…advise air strike.”
There was a long silence from the SOCOM side of the conversation.
“Say again, Thirteen.”
“Air strike. I say again, an air strike is my primary advice.”
Another long pause went by before anyone spoke.
“Thirteen, Admiral Karson demands to know what your secondary advice is.”
“My secondary advice,” Masters hesitated, “is to do nothing.”
“Say again?”
“I say again, do nothing,” Masters said. “Wait for a cold snap to move in and freeze this whole damned place solid. Don’t send anyone up here until then. Thirteen out.”
“Thirteen! Thirteen, come back! Thirteen!”
Masters pulled the encryption module and shut the radio off. He headed back to join the others, his eyes catching Norton’s as the man stood still in the middle of the plane, doing nothing.
“Alex?”
“This whole damned plane is going to crawl in maybe two hours,” he said. “Probably less. A whole lot less.”
Masters felt a chill. “How much less?”
“I’d like to suggest we move now.…”
“That soon, huh?” Masters went for the armory lockers and grabbed every box of twelve-gauge they had, tossing them into an available duffel. “You armed, Eddie?”
“All they’ve got are these old M4s,” Rankin complained, “but I’m packing, and I’ve got mags to spare. Just so you know, we’ve got movement headed this way.”
“Alex?” Masters glanced over at Norton.
“There’s nothing here for me.”
“All right, let’s get moving.” Masters nodded as he kicked open another locker and pulled out several canvas satchels. He pulled strips out of each, tossing them around the bay of the aircraft. “I do believe we’ve outstayed our welcome here.”
“We have now,” Rankin said dryly as he eyed the pile of satchels.
The three beat a hasty retreat from the Hercules, hitting the ground running in the opposite direction, heading south as the figures approaching them went straight for the C-130. The trio didn’t look back — they hung left, heading southwest.